


What Remained After

by twistmyleg



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Therion is a vampire (er was?), all aboard the sad train, and memorial pictures of alfion, gods what have i written, i'm selling tissues for free want some?, no happy ending, we provide free hugs and chocolates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistmyleg/pseuds/twistmyleg
Summary: What he would give for just one more conversation with him...*Read notes at beginning for more context; inspired by Bloodbound and What Could Have Been*





	What Remained After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColbyPuppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColbyPuppy/gifts).



> Dedicated to ColbyPuppy, fabulous author of "Bloodbound." I have looked forward to these updates since the story's birth; they give me a sense of warm fluffiness (not at some times) and excite the writing genes within to write for Alfion and Octopath Traveler as a whole. The alternate, angsty route, "What Could Have Been," piqued my curiosity because tragedies and angst interest me, especially since it is so early in the story too that the alternate was written. And of course, I would not want to torture poor Colby to write it out and cry more. So I'll be the monster that shatters him. Because I'm too curious to be stopped. (I'm sorry that the gift ended up being pure angst :/)
> 
> Granted, this is my take on the events after the last sentence of "What Could Have Been." The ending is implied in that story, but I wanted to see what I could do with it. Read with a grain of salt. Or many grains, considering. Also keep in mind that numerous quotes and descriptions are from the previously mentioned two stories (to maintain consistency). So without further ado, here is more angst that no one asked for!

_ Fangs bared. Body straining against the ice pillars holding him in place. Growls that could come from any monster. Eyes hollowed, with no remains of the person he once was.  _

_ Arm hiding his face. Body trembling; giving out and forcing him to kneel. A book closing; an undetectable noise. Tears flowing like a river: never-ending. _

_ “H-He’s gone. He...he’s actually gone.” Erratic breathing, arm lowered yet eyes averted from his empty stare. “He’s gone, and that bastard turned his body into…” A choked sob. A reasonable hand on his shoulder, comforting in its grasp. _

_ “...What do you wish to do? You were closest to him…” A defeated sigh. “I feel you may have the best idea as to what Therion would want.” Wavering eyes met its empty gaze.  _

_ “We...we can’t leave him like this…” His axe, lifted from the necromancer who had every fault in this tragedy. Aimed toward the being who seemingly recognized the weapon with a hiss, but gave no plea of mercy. Hand shaking, grip tightening, eyes wavering, unending tears and a heart that knew no greater sorrow. _

_ “I-I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure you have a good funeral, buddy.”  _

_ Axe lifted. And for just a moment, he was there. Tears spilled down his face, eyes wide with innocence and fear. Yet at the same time, there was a semblance of peace? He could not bear to watch. Grip loosened, the axe tumbled down, crunch reverberating through the dungeon. Impact felt through his hands, rippling through his body. A gargle, then nothing. Eyes wide, no emotion depicted in them, staring back at him as the consequence of his actions. _

“Alfyn.” 

His eyes fluttered open, squinting as they adjusted to the brilliant sunlight of Quarrycrest. The only thing impeding his view was a makeshift grave and numerous of his companions standing around it. Each traveler busied themself with some aspect of its creation, including those just welcomed as of yesterday: Olberic carved his name into the stick with his spear while Primrose held it tight, eyes averted to the ground. H’aanit -- one of their newest members -- kneeled at the recently dug hole and planted a patch of wildflowers located just outside the city (and in an odd fashion, colored a light purple). Ophilia -- another new member -- kneeled in front of the hole with hands clasped, eyes closed in prayer. 

He had not noticed Cyrus’ hand placed upon his shoulder, eyes scanning his face for a response. His hair was disheveled beyond its normal professionalism, to which a hand swept away the stray strands. Behind him, Tressa chatted with members of the local guard, making different gestures to haggle down different prices for their gravedigging. Her voice did not contain previous optimism, although it still managed to lower the price by more than double. The guards nodded before walking off, Tressa dragging her feet over to them while shuffling her fingers through her remaining leaves. Cyrus noted this and immediately turned to her, a neutral expression replacing his concerned one. “Are we settled then?” She nodded, keeping her gaze to the ground.

“Just had to pay for the equipment used, since its borrowed from the blacksmith. Quite minimal. And the innkeep said we’re free to stay for as long as we like. Price reduced to zero.” Silence filled the void between them; each of them knowing who would have filled it in with a snarky comment about Tressa’s honorable line of work. It was no surprise to say that out of their small group, they had been hit the hardest in wake of his death. Cyrus cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you see if H’aanit needs assistance? I would like to talk with Alfyn for a moment in private.” She nodded, trudging her feet over toward H’aanit’s position. Cyrus returned his gaze to Alfyn, concerned expression returning. “How are you feeling, Alfyn?” he questioned, voice barely audible to the others, who had begun to implant the stick on top of the created mound. Alfyn shook his head softly, doing his best to show a smile. 

“Just doin’ my best, Professor. How are you holdin’ up?” Cyrus gave a soft sigh, overlooking as H’aanit carefully patted down the spare dirt. The others began to gather in a small circle around the makeshift grave, led by Ophilia in joining hands. Her eyes met theirs, silently asking for them to join. 

“I suppose I’ve nothing more adequate to say than what you did. I wanted to remind you that I am here, if you need someone to talk to. You’ve been quiet sequestered as of late.” And normally, he would have taken the professor’s offer on the spot. He could understand all of the sentiments that ran wild; the regrets that replayed in his mind for the last three days since the incident. But instead he simply nodded in acknowledgement, shaking off the professor’s hand to join their companions. His hands weakly grasped Tressa’s to his right, and Cyrus’ to his left. 

Ophilia cleared her throat, a warm smile spread across her lips. “Let’s begin, then. I would like everyone to close their eyes as I lead us through this prayer. Let whatever come to mind flow freely. There is no shame in expressing your feelings as you will.” Everyone hesitantly followed her instruction; Cyrus squeezed his hand as Alfyn performed this task, as if supplying him with support that he desperately needed. “Aelfric, Bringer of the Flame. And Aeber, Prince of Thieves. Hear our prayer to you today, O Divine ones. We ask, on behalf of a disciple of both parties, that you guide this soul we gather upon toward your lights and guidance above.” 

Immediately, Alfyn heard Tressa sniffling next to him. It came as a complete surprise, in consideration that she poked at him to the point of annoyance. Yet she always approached him with more confidence by the day, despite her suspicions. To say she found a friend in him was something she would not admit openly, but knew all the same. Next to her, Alfyn noted how Primrose’s breathing became erratic, and Olberic’s deep meditative state was already interrupted. Nonetheless, Ophilia continued.

“May your guidance reach him wherever his spirit walks, helping him to find solace wherever he is taken. May your light and wisdom strip him of burdens he bore, pains he endured, scars that inhibited his freedom, and negative emotions that festered in his heart.” Primrose dropped to the ground, choking back sobs. Cyrus trembled next to him, breath faltering. “We wish him all the best in your hands, whatever his fate is ordained above. May your Flame ever shine forth in his heart and ours, and may his goodwill be spread to those in need of it.” She exhaled, humming out a hymn in prayer. “H’aanit, you wanted to say something too?” The huntress cleared her throat as Ophilia increased the volume on her hymn. Alfyn could only imagine Therion listening to it, making an annoyed face. Perhaps calling it too mushy.

“Draefendi, huntress of the Darkwood. Hearen a plea from thine disciple. Mayeth this soul not only be guided towarde peace, but also in departure helpen strengthen the environment thou hast created. Mayeth his remains be fuel for thy flowers at his marking; to sprouten life from thine earth and blossomen into fuel for creatures of all forms. Mayeth his flesh feedeth the soil and grass; his blood becometh sap and bones wood for life beyondeth his years. Mayeth its impacts stretchen beyond Quarrycrest, and reachen all scopes of life, includen thy forest in which thou calls home. And mayeth the cycle continue forever forward in thine guidance, he at thy root of it all.” 

Alfyn knew Therion would have rolled his eyes and tucked his scarf further, making an off-handed remark about her speech patterns and disregarding her plea. But it was not the only thing Alfyn knew. Any comment similar to that, Therion would perform those actions. He would sweep his hair back by a few threads, uncomfortable with the newfound heat in the room. His eyes would dart wildly for an exit, but give up upon seeing how his companions prevented him from missing the fun. Very rarely would his eye sparkle with such intensity, a vulnerable part of him unveiled for Alfyn to see. And the thought of it was so pure in its creation, somber in its destroyed reality…

“Alfyn?” 

He opened his eyes, only to find they stung with tears. The circle dissipated; Olberic ushered Primrose and Tressa away from the grave, wiping at his own eyes when possible. Ophilia walked alongside H’aanit, engaged in silent conversation yet making positive remarks about her speech. Only Cyrus remained, another hand placed on his shoulder and eyes frantically roaming his face for his return to reality. Alfyn shook his head softly, wiping the tears away with a free arm. “Sorry, Professor. It’s just…”

“It’s quite alright. There’s no shame in grief, Alfyn.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “Do you want to talk about it back at the inn?” He considered it for only a moment before shaking his head, taking a step forward toward the grave.

“I...I need some time alone. To process my thoughts. I-I know ya wanna help, Professor, but...some of these sentiments....” Cyrus shook his head, adjusting his cloak before giving Alfyn a sad smile.

“I understand. But remember what I said earlier. Come find me if you need someone to talk to.” 

“Thanks, Professor.” With one final glance toward him, Cyrus gave a long sigh before his footsteps echoed in the distance.

And then he was alone, sitting in front of the makeshift grave. He hugged his knees to his chest, taking a deep, shaky breath in exchange for any words he could muster out. What should he say? What  _ could  _ he say? He exhaled, eyes focused only on the stick with his intricately carved name. Olberic had done quite a job, in consideration that his hand trembled with every letter, wiping his eyes every few seconds to readjust his vision. 

“...Hey. It’s...been quite a day.” No response. Only the wind seemed to be listening, passing through fiercely. Nevertheless, Alfyn continued. “I-I’m gonna really miss travelin’ with ya. Prickly as ya acted, you had your own ways t’show how much you cared about us.” Memories of days spent travelling to Quarrycrest from Clearbrook flashed through his mind: assisting Primrose against her master’s, entertaining Tressa’s antics, helping Olberic with training, and pretending to tune into Cyrus’ long-winded lectures regarding various subjects. Listening on conversations, even when he sulked at the back of the group, and giving valuable input at needed moments. “You were a good guy, Theri, whether you thought so or not.” 

Another memory came to mind as he sniffled and rubbed his eyes: “Had a lot of fun goofin’ around with ya on the road. And, oh man, I still remember that time you got drunk in Rippletide. You wouldn’t let me go; snuggled up to me and wouldn’t let me sleep in my own bed.” It was foggy in memory, but all the same Alfyn remembered exactly what he felt: slightly tipsy from good food and drink, but something powerful derived from Therion’s drunk attachment. Maybe he had not meant it due to his intoxicated state, but the way he clung to him like he never wanted to let go. When asked to release him, he only hugged tighter, whined, and leaned against his chest, even nibbling. Alfyn wasn’t sure if he ever knew anything better than that. And it only continued to grow for the remainder of their journey. But now…

“...Never got the chance to tell ya, but...I really enjoyed your company. Thought that, maybe, it coulda been love…” The feeling still ached in his heart, wanting him at his side. What he would do for just one more conversation with him; to tell him everything he could before he left. His aspirations, his regrets, and the little things he always wanted to tell him. But it was a faraway dream now, as was the goal he had initially set out with on this journey. There was nothing more to say or do. All that remained was an ultimatum he reached over three days of lamenting. 

He stood slowly, careful to brush away spare dirt, eyes locked on the grave. He needed to etch it in his memory as both a painful reminder and a wistful memory. “I...don’t think I’m cut out for this. For travelin’. What good am I if I...if I can’t even protect those I care about?” Once burned in his mind’s eye, he turned away, gaze focusing on a peculiar building upon the highest crags. It was a relief he budgeted his savings in the last three days, lest he would have none to indulge himself with in sorrow. “Goodbye, Therion.” A pause. A dark, morbid thought crossed his mind. “I’ll see ya on the other side, you hear?” 

And he couldn’t dismiss it as he hurried away, passing by disconcerted citizens who glanced toward the inn with skepticism. Other travelers had bags at their sides, fleeing the town in the wake of its loss. They had every right to; Quarrycrest’s reputation has suffered to the lowest degree, and it would be quite some time before it could turn profit. Alfyn should be among them, but found that reaching the building was of utmost importance; like Ophilia’s Kindling, and desire strong like Primrose’s revenge.

Thankfully, not many occupied the tavern, which was normally raucous by the time Alfyn would arrive. He settled in a dark corner where only one candle was lit, eyes glossed over the shine of the mugs behind the counter. The tavernkeep walked over to greet him, and, noticing his distraught state, was hesitant in taking his order. It appeared as if he was going to try and find someone responsible to sit with him; perhaps one of his seen companions. If he were thinking logically, Alfyn would have asked for Cyrus to be escorted to his side. It was never safe to indulge alone. But Alfyn shook his head, instead digging out handfuls of leaves and pushing them in the tavernkeep’s direction. The tavernkeep appeared overwhelmed, shaking his head and refusing the leaves. In hindsight, it was more leaves than needed, but Alfyn lost the sense to care.

“Just get me your strongest. Please.” It was around this time business began to pick up, which captured the tavernkeep’s attention as he welcomed local customers and tended to their orders. He lost focus on hesitantly accepting Alfyn’s order, for he returned minutes later with a tray of mugs filled to the brim with the strongest. Local customers spread rumors surrounding it, stating how it had put so-and-so in a deep state of delirium. How it really took the edge off and the taste was to die for, but there was a hefty price to pay the next morning. Alfyn ignored them, washing away his grief in mug after mug. 

An hour passed, yet Alfyn found his thoughts only worsened with each mug he consumed. A new regret would pop up with each one, and Alfyn became all the more enticed to drown further. They stacked up on the side of the table; the tavernkeep dropped off two more mugs for every round he made, although the amount of liquid began to taper with each additional mug. His judgement had been thrown out the window and coordination knocked out. Alcohol dripped more and more down his chin and onto his vest, though the majority always was consumed. Irrational ideas floated through his head; most of which correlated to the looming thought he had leaving the grave. And some he could not help but agree upon.

Perhaps if he walked out right now, and kept walking past the tavern toward the edge of the precipice…would Dohter bless his fall with a cushion? Or would Aeber grant his wish, bringing misfortune upon him and letting him gain access to the answers to his burning questions? It would be a quick and easy path for him, no? From that distance, none of his potions or bandages could patch him up when he was done. And even if that did not do it, certainly a potion of high potency could be concocted just in case? Maybe in that sort of state, he could see him again. He stood slowly, idea finalizing in his head and mind already mapping the way to the nearest precipice. What could stop him in this state?

“I wouldn’t do that, medicine man. I’ve tried that before. Hurts like all hell.” 

Alfyn froze, jaw slack at the sight in front of him and body slumping into the chair again. Almost as if any normal occurrence, a man sporting a purple mantle and scarf sauntered into the tavern, eyes set upon him. He gave a wave to the tavernkeep, who did not seem to notice, and strided right over to his table. His eyes were filled with amusement and secrets galore, scarf tucked over his mouth, but attitude almost the same as he sat right down, finger tracing one of the remaining mugs. “Left to the whims of whoever finds you. Suddenly you find you’re in a worse hell than before, living under one big scarf of secrecy.”

“H-How…?” Alfyn stammered out, consuming another mug in amazement. He gave him an inquisitive eye, watching as he slammed the mug onto the table. The tavernkeep already strided toward him, new tray of mugs in hand.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you drink that much. Hope you’ve had some food with that. Always told me that it wasn’t so good to drink so much on an empty stomach. Especially in Rippletide.” The tavernkeep set the mugs down, shooting a worried glance at his customer before walking away slowly. Alfyn shook his head, taking up a mug and downing it with one go. The taste had dulled in his mouth, with a spicy aftertaste still lingering. It was the only sensation keeping him bound to the conversation.

“Why are ya here?” Alfyn asked. Therion shrugged, locking gazes with him.

“I don’t know. You tell me. You know I hate socializing.”

Silence. A revelation -- strange and morose as it was -- formed in Alfyn’s mind. And then: “I’m sorry, Theri. For everythin’ that happened to you. If only we had known sooner...if we had known, we coulda prevented all of that from happenin’. Coulda stood by yer side as ya walked to t’inn. You’d still be with us, doing yer usual mopin’, but with us all the same. Gods, it’s all my fault, isn’t it? I let ya go that day, and I...I...” His tears were renewed as they fell in cascades, pooling on the table’s surface. Alfyn did not bother to wipe them away; he did not have the coordination to. “Could I have done anythin’ to prevent it, Therion? Could it have ended any other way?” Therion was quiet for a moment, finger stalling on the rim of a clean mug. Then, he shook his head slowly, eyes flickering to the golden liquid inside.

“I deserved it,” he spoke in a small but firm voice. “I was a monster then, Alfyn. I lost my humanity. I attacked you, and you simply did what you were supposed to do with monsters. You’re not at fault.” 

“But you could be...I mean, I coulda helped ya even before then. With yer condition, I mean. There were so many opportunities to prevent ya from becoming this ‘vampire’ thing, and yet…”

“You were never supposed to know of the condition. It occurred before I met you.” He chuckled, eyes reflecting a sad nostalgia. “It was just my luck: thrown away only to be picked up and used by someone else. There was nothing you could have done, Alfyn. You did all you could for a man that should have stayed away.” His eyes flickered back up to Alfyn, and a grimace formed on his features. “Please don’t make that face. I’m telling you to stop feeling bad, and you’re just making it worse for yourself.” 

“Because I wanted to do more than just be the man that should have stayed away! Even in Clearbrook, there was no way I was givin’ up on ya. I really wanted to be your travelin’ partner, Therion. There was always somethin’ wonderful about ya. And I wanted to draw it out. See where it would take us. Really get to know ya. There was always somethin’ I coulda done, but I wanted to respect yer privacy.” He choked on a sob, barely aware that breathing had started to become a hard chore. His vision was darkening, and Therion was fading from view. “I don’t know if ya heard any of what I said at your grave, but it’s all true, Therion. Ya didn’t deserve any of it. And I wanted to be the one that could help ya. Really.”

Therion gave him a wide-eye stare that Alfyn could barely focus on. His hand could no longer reach for the mug in front of him, suddenly trembling too much to be of use. Then, something mystical happened: Therion lowered his scarf and gave him a lopsided smile, sweeping a hand through his hair bashfully. His fangs appeared non-existent. “You always were too trusting for your own good. You’re hopeless, you know that? Risking your neck to hang out with a bloodthirsty monster?” Alfyn let out an exhausted laugh, eyelids drooping with each passing moment.

“Hopeless I may be, but it’s worth it, I tell ya. It’s really worth somethin’ to see ya smile, Theri. Too bad ya covered it with your scarf all the time.” Therion’s smile grew wider for just a moment before it morphed into a smirk. He lifted himself from the chair, tossing his scarf behind him.

“I should get going. As should you. We’ve both places to go.” 

And yet it was Alfyn’s only chance, given his current state. His tears kept streaming since the conversation started, and here they started with renewed vigor. Clumsily and with concerted effort, he grasped onto a mug handle and thrusted the glass in the air. “Therion, wait.” 

The thief stopped, turning to face him. An annoyed look crossed his features, as per usual. “What now?”

A thin, unwavering smile. Eyes brighter than they had been in days, albeit pleading. Mind clear on one thing, despite the scramble the rest of him seemed to be. “Just one more drink with me, Therion? We never got to have those drinks in Noblecourt. I was really lookin’ forward to that, y’know? It was gonna...this round’ll be on me.” 

Therion hesitated for a moment, deep concern pooling in his eyes. There was a hollowness in them Alfyn recognized, but could not put a finger on. In the corner of his eye, the tavernkeep watched from a close distance, whispering to a few guardsmen and scattering them in different directions. Other patrons seemed to be observing them, questions escaping their lips but never answered. But concern cleared from his eyes quickly as he took up the remaining mug and held it in the air, a defeated, somber smile gracing his lips. Alfyn’s smile grew wider.

“Fine. But remember that. You’ve a terrible memory when you’re drunk.” 

“I learned from the best in savin’ leaves. I promise it’s on me.” He clinked his glass with Therion, the noise ringing in his ear alongside other strange noises in the background. Although that had faded from his eyesight; the only person he could see was Therion holding the mug toward him, tears now running down his own face. “To you, Therion. For the great life you lived, and the freedom you reclaimed.” 

A echoing sigh, ubiquitous in its call above. Another clink, a renewed bitter feeling down his throat, and a hearty laugh consuming him completely before all but  _ his  _ voice faded away. “And to you, Alfyn. For the great life you lived, and the succor you always maintained.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, let's see. Here's two-hundred boxes of tissues, an apology note with a big smiley face, and lots of chocolates/cookies fresh from the oven (snickerdoodle, if curious. Milk included, both regular and chocolate). If that's all that needs to be set up, then I'll just...
> 
> *flees into the night, unsure if I should regret breaking Alfyn into nothingness and attempts to escape like Therion would. probably doesn't work...*
> 
> And to Colby: Again, I'm sorry that this was a pure angst fest, but I was really inspired by that ending. For as much emotion as I felt, anytime a story can make me ask a question beyond its ending holds a special place in my heart. They're the type of stories I think about for a long time. Thank you so much for your contribution to the Octopath tag, and keep up the amazing work as always! :')


End file.
